


The Girl on the Screen

by femoral



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominant Kylo Ren, F/M, Jealous Kylo Ren, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren doesn't know how to use a computer, Light Dom/sub, Reader is a Cam Girl, Top Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femoral/pseuds/femoral
Summary: You're a nurse working for the First Order in an era where it's not uncommon for women to partake in a few "extra-curricular" activities. You receive a new viewer, a new viewer who makes peculiar requests and seems less interested in sexual favours and more interested in conversation. A new viewer with dark hair and pale skin and freckles (beauty marks?) who likes to tell you what to do and asks you to call him 'Sir.'
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You, Reader/Other(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	The Girl on the Screen

**Author's Note:**

> Hi frens
> 
> I've only ever watched like one Star Wars movie in my whole life so this is some kind of shitty idea masquerading as knowing what I'm doing. I've fallen down a deep dark hole of Kylo/reader fics and had this idea of Kylo becoming an obsessive but sexually stunted/shy viewer of the reader as a camgirl while listening to If You're Too Shy (Let Me Know) by the 1975.
> 
> So far no smut but I just wanted to test the waters before I sit down and write for 6 hours - is this kind of storyline anything anyone is interested in me continuing? Let me know!
> 
> xoxo Gossip Girl

Realistically, when you really put your mind to it, you’re not entirely sure how you ever ended up in this situation. You’d never for a moment thought that there would be any other avenue inside being a military grunt for you to prove some sort of useful to the First Order and their swathes of soldiers.  
You suppose women were few and far between, that this is easier than being a prostitute destined to spend her time tailing behind the First Order’s movements through the galaxies like some sort of wartime comfort woman, but the logistics of it all still seem to baffle you. 

You realise you’ve been quiet too long, too pensive, and turn your eyes back to the datapad before you, brows relaxed, lips pouted. The output from your datapad didn’t show much more above your nose, but you’d figured out that using your whole face to emote was the only way to get repeat business, and so you swiped your tongue out, wetting your lower slip, slow and languid. “Did you miss me, daddy?” 

Your datapad rang with tiny dings of approval as you slipped the strap of your bra down the sleek curve of your shoulder and tossed your hair back to frame your delicate throat. 

__________________________________________________________________

You were, in the view of your military officials and perhaps even your Supreme Leader, a nurse for the First Order’s battalions with a less than wholesome night-time pursuit. It wasn’t something necessarily allowed but then again it certainly wasn’t discouraged. Whatever someone chose to do with their downtime was left to them (unless, of course, they had been planning to flee and join the Resistance - that was typically frowned upon, and you’d figured this out from the general consensus of FN-2187’s having gone AWOL some time ago). 

You liked to look at it from the angle that you were helping the First Order in one of the best ways that a woman could help. Hypersexualised, sweet when asked and bratty otherwise, you offered men (and probably some women) an outlet they certainly needed. 

Essentially, you were a cam-girl. 

Usually you entertain only private individuals - whether they show their face is up to them, you never ask anything for your own curiosity or pleasure because that only serves to ruin the moment for your oh-so-loyal clientele. Sometimes you’ll perform for a group, usually with no more than three members, because it’s tedious work trying to appease a handful of individuals with very different ideas about what their favourite plaything should be doing to get them off. 

You’ve come to recognise your favourite clients, learned their usernames (all of which are variants on IG-1234 or the like), and while you don’t make any money from what you spend so many hours doing, you know that you’re serving the greater good, you’re clearing heads and minds of sexual repression, and this means that your soldiers fight stronger, harder, better.

In practice, it also means you should see less of them in your infirmaries, but this is not always the case. 

__________________________________________________________________

You’ve had a long day at work. Nothing violent, no, but there seems to be some sort of gastrointestinal defect tearing its way through the infantry of the Starkiller. It’s been a long day of blood, sweat, shit, and tears, and you’re exhausted by the time you finally retire to your private quarters. 

They’re plain and meek and standard-issue. You have a bathroom to yourself, sure, but the cubicle itself is barely bigger than two square feet and the toilet prevents the door from ever fully opening. The engineers who designed this place certainly didn’t care much for functionality when it comes to the concerns of the lower ranks. 

Nonetheless, you’re sure you have clients waiting. 

You strip out of your crisp, starched scrubs (trying to ignore that that is _definitely_ faecal matter splattered across the top of your standard-issue boot) and slip through the small gap in your shower door with a breathless heave. The water goes from too cold to too hot to too cold again, but it doesn’t matter - you wash quickly, you always have, but there’s something about your experience as a military nurse on the field that makes you appreciate efficiency. 

You leave your hair wet, hanging in dark tendrils over the sleek expanse of your decolletage, and you prop up your datapad on a small table and begin to tap away. You’re not wearing anything fancy, just your towel wrapped around the swell of your breasts and held taught under your armpits. Your hair is still dripping slightly, and you lick a drop of water from the corner of your lips as your camera and the chat flicker to life. 

You worry your lower lip between your teeth and see a small line of worry dip between your brows in the small window of camera feedback. 

There’s no one here, no one that you recognise. Only an unfamiliar usercode - IG-2345. 

You tap the name with your finger and your screen splits into two. It would appear that their camera is also on, but you’re not sure because there’s only swathes of black and the poor quality of your datapad could be playing tricks on your eyes.  
You suppose your usual viewers have probably been treated by you in the medical bay today. It sends a small thrill up your spine knowing that all of these men that fantasise about you have been so close that they could have _touched_ you, and they have no idea. 

Nonetheless, perhaps you can make a new regular out of this IG-2345. 

“Hello,” you say, soft and breathy but loud enough to carry over the microphone of your datapad. The black seems to shift slightly, like that someone on the other side has taken a deep breath or repositioned some. You try not to look too closely. “My name is Stella.” It’s not, obviously, but it’s the best thing you could come up with on the spot those months ago that you had started doing this at the pressure of another infirmary nurse. Entertaining the masses is not an uncommon pastime within the walls of the Starkiller Base, it would seem. 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_Hello_. 

You’re not sure that there really is anybody in that camera screen, not now. Surely you would have seen movement as they typed. You disregard it. 

“It would seem I get you all to myself,” you say, bringing your hand up to worry your thumb over your lower lip, making sure to catch at the pout of it and drag ever so slightly. “What would you like me to call you?” 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_Sir_. 

“Yes, sir. And what would you like me to do for you?” You look dead into the lens of the camera, offering your best bedroom eyes because in your experience these men want you to plead and cry and make yourself cum while they pretend they had any hand in aiding it. You direct your gaze to the chat log, but there is nothing there. No IG-2345 is typing, nothing. 

But he’s still there. 

“Do you like it when I talk to you, sir? Or do you prefer I stay quiet?” You open up the top of your towel some, exposing another expanse of flesh in what you usually know to be tantalisingly slow, teasing, but you don’t even expose a nipple before your viewer has disconnected. 

Well, shit. 

__________________________________________________________________

You had gone about your usual evening after that. There were no more viewers logged on and waiting to see, and in all honesty your ego was somewhat damaged, so perhaps it was for the best. You dressed and collected your food from the nearby chow-hall, and that was that. 

A week or so passed in much the same way. You entertained your regulars when the mood struck, but mostly you were stuck in the med-bay, working long hours as this bacterial infection continued to take down men. It didn’t seem to be a particularly dangerous infection and certainly no one had died, but you just wished that perhaps the Stormtroopers and other workers alike could exercise some kind of restraint and slow the spread. Unfortunately, you knew all too well that the nature of the military prevented those feeling ill from simply staying in their bunks - you go to your marches, you perform your basic tasks, you shit yourself or throw up on your general’s boots and they fling you to the med-bay and pretend you don’t exist until you’re well enough to return. 

You had just finished another shift, another shower, and put on your undergarments when you settled on your bed with your datapad propped up, opening up your show as per usual, mindful to keep anything more than half of your face strictly out of view. 

Interestingly, your virtual room was practically empty, the same as last week. You chewed the inside of your cheek, a nervous habit, staring at the only username present in your list of people to chat with. 

IG-2345. 

You tap his name with your fingertip and open up the chat. 

This time the camera is definitely on, you can see a light in the background, but it does little to illuminate your anonymous admirer. 

“Hello, sir,” you greet coyly. “I’m sorry if I offended you so badly the last time we spoke.” 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

You can see the shift of another human as he types his response on his datapad. It does very little in terms of identification - or, anything, really - but at least you know there’s a human on the other side and not some kind of fucked-up, sexually-malfunctioning droid. 

_Your apology is accepted_. 

“Thank you, sir,” you breathe, and you wonder why it feels like some small ball of guilt has just started to unravel in your stomach. Sure, you don’t like to disappoint people, neither in your extracurricular activities or otherwise, but you hadn’t given much thought to IG-2345 and his disappointment in your previous interaction much further than on the evening it had happened. “What can I do to please you this evening?” 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_Put a shirt on_. 

You choke back a noise of surprise. Put a shirt on? What kind of man comes to a _cam-girl_ while he’s military bound and hasn’t touched a woman in God knows how long and asks her to put on more clothes? Some sort of freak, surely. 

You weigh up your options, worrying your blunt thumbnail between your teeth as you stare down the lens. It’s someone on the base, you can discern that because the base uses its own private system for this sort of fraternisation. What you can’t discern, though, is the likelihood that this stranger is going to try and wear your skin like a glove should he ever figure out your true identity. 

You suck your teeth and get up, a blur of your naked thighs passing across the screen of the datapad. When you return, you’re wearing a plain white undershirt, loose and comfortable. 

“Is this to your approval, sir?” You ask, and immediately the word ‘Yes.’ appears in your chatlog. “I’m pleased. What would you like me to do for you now, sir?” 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

You hear him backspace.

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_Talk to me._. 

You scrunch your brow in confusion, out of his view. Talk to him? Talk to him like you talk to other clients? Talk to him _how?_ Baby talk, dirty talk? There’s too many options and the chance of getting it wrong with IG-2345 seems to be fairly high. You’re confused, and a flutter of nervousness is beginning to build in the hollow of your stomach, nestling itself into your ribcage. 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_Tell me about yourself, Stella._

You don’t know fully what takes over you, but you do. You change details here and there, you don’t say you’re a nurse now but you mention you were previously on the field. He stays quiet, obviously, and sometimes you’re not even sure if he’s still really there because he sits like a goddamn stature, but it doesn’t phase you. You prattle on and on, unsure entirely where you’ve suddenly plucked up all this courage to spill every meaningless detail of your existence to this strange man who very well could steal you away into the loading bay and leave you for dead with probably very little consequence to his own livelihood. 

Before you can really register it, it’s been over an hour. Over an hour and IG-2345 is still sitting there, silent as ever, stoic and patient. He’s not even typed anything this whole time. 

You’re tired. It feels like you’ve just sat through a therapy session and the anxiety that this therapy session could get you clubbed upside the head is really starting to gnaw at your throat. You duck your face some, rubbing your hands into the sockets of your tired, itchy eyes, lifting your head before you move your hands away so that this strange individual doesn’t get to see _everything_ of you. 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_Are you tired, Stella?_

“Yes, sir,” you reply, voice a little hoarse with overuse. You take a sip of water from a glass kept close to your bed. 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_I’d like for you to go to sleep now, Stella._

You nod and hope it translates through the bobbing of your chin onscreen. “Yes, sir. Are you happy with our interaction tonight, sir?” You ask, the question of ‘did I disappoint you’ hangs in the air afterwards, unspoken but palpable. 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_Yes. We will do the same again tomorrow. Nobody else. Do you understand?_

“Yes, sir.” The anxiety really has your heart fluttering now. This guy’s a psychopath, for sure. 

IG-2345 is typing . . .

_Good girl. Goodnight, Stella._

“Goodnight, sir,” you answer quietly, still staring at your datapad, eyes blurry and unfocused with exhaustion. 

But then something happens. A fuck-up not on your end, a fuck-up so subtle that you’re not even sure that IG-2345 would have even noticed it. He moves his datapad to leave the chat before you do, and you’re granted a split second of a face, a throat, that freezes briefly before disappearing as he shuts off his datapad. 

Pale skin, dark eyes, heavy lashes and a brooding mouth. A freckle, maybe, or lots of freckles. Maybe a scar that trickles down half of his face?

_Where have you seen that man before?_


End file.
